Before the Feast Read online

  Frau Mahlke asked Herr Schramm whether midges were a problem in the area, and Herr Schramm said, “Yes, of course.” And he added, “On average a hundred thousand midges’ eggs are laid per square meter of the marshy land.” And, “It would be even worse without the bats.” And, “All the same, I’ve always wanted to go to Finland. They have lakes there that I’ve never seen. For instance, it would be good if you find me someone who’d like to go to Finland with me. I’ve got a bit of money put aside.”

  “Well, let’s begin, shall we, Herr Schramm?” asked Frau Mahlke, picking up her questionnaire.

  The questions about the lady’s appearance were soon dealt with: he liked brunettes. Yes, shorter than him, but not too short. No, he had no objection in principle to makeup. Yes, she should be well groomed but not to excess, you could see plenty of that on TV.

  The following came next:

  Frau Mahlke: “Should the lady of your heart be the domestic type?”

  Herr Schramm: “What does that mean?”

  Frau Mahlke: “Would you prefer someone who likes to stay at home, or someone who can join in outdoor activities with you?”

  Herr Schramm: “I was an army officer, but I don’t get an officer’s pension.”

  Frau Mahlke: “Meaning?”

  Herr Schramm: “Meaning I have to work on the black market in the daytime. But don’t write it down just like that. Say I don’t mind what she does during the day, but I’d like her to be at home in the evening.”

  Frau Mahlke: “Speaking of work, would you like the lady to have a career?”

  Herr Schramm: “I don’t mind.”

  Frau Mahlke: “Do you have any hobbies, Herr Schramm?”

  Herr Schramm: “I’ve thought of something else to do with the last question.”

  Frau Mahlke: “Yes?”

  Herr Schramm: “Well, if she does have a job then I’d like that, if she’s happy with it too. Do you see what I mean?”

  Frau Mahlke: “I think so.”

  Herr Schramm: “It’s very important. Are you happy with your own work, Frau Mahlke?”

  Frau Mahlke: “I meet a great many interesting people.”

  Herr Schramm: “There you are, then. Ski-jumping and bats.”

  Frau Mahlke: “What?”

  Herr Schramm: “My hobbies. But I don’t do any ski-jumping myself. Do you know Jens Weissflog?”

  Frau Mahlke: “He was that ski-jumper, wasn’t he?”

  Herr Schramm: “Not just that ski-jumper, he was the ski-jumper. If there’s a category for it, please put: ‘Would like one who has no objection to ski-jumping.’”

  Frau Mahlke: “All right. Under Miscellaneous, maybe. Let’s move on to something else. Do you wish for physical closeness?”

  Herr Schramm: “Er. If it happens, if we like each other, I wouldn’t say no.”

  Frau Mahlke: “Do you drink alcohol?”

  Herr Schramm: “I do drink alcohol, yes.”

  Frau Mahlke: “Do you drink more than two glasses a day?”

  Herr Schramm: “Two glasses of what?”

  Frau Mahlke laughs: “You see, I recently had a gentleman who, well, who liked to drink alcohol very much.”

  Herr Schramm: “I like it very much too.”

  Frau Mahlke: “Right.”

  Herr Schramm: “Yes.”

  Frau Mahlke: “Should she drink alcohol as well?”

  Herr Schramm: “With me, yes.”

  Frau Mahlke: “That’s fine too.”

  Herr Schramm: “Yes.”

  Frau Mahlke: “There was that Four Skills ski-jumping tournament, I watched that with my son when he was still small, he liked it.”

  Herr Schramm: “Four Hills tournament.”

  Frau Mahlke: “What?”

  Herr Schramm: “Are you married, Frau Mahlke?”

  Frau Mahlke: “Not now—how about housework?”

  Herr Schramm: “I’ve been doing it myself for ages. That’s no problem.”

  Frau Mahlke: “I believe you. But it all depends on your expectations. What do you expect of a woman, and what can she expect of you?”

  Herr Schramm: “Could I perhaps mention that I don’t like ironing?”

  Frau Mahlke: “We could say: shared work around the house ideal.”

  Herr Schramm: “Shared? Good. Shared sounds good.”

  Frau Mahlke: “A foreign lady?”

  Herr Schramm: “No.”

  Frau Mahlke: “Right. Should we concentrate on candidates from this part of the country?”

  Herr Schramm: “Well, if there was anyone here I’d know. I can show her everything. And please write that it’s lovely here but not as lovely as some other places.”

  Frau Mahlke: “I really like ironing myself.”

  Herr Schramm: “I see.”

  Frau Mahlke: “How about children? Should the lady have children?”

  Herr Schramm: “If they’ve left home then I don’t mind.”

  Frau Mahlke: “Right. How would you define yourself politically, Herr Schramm?”

  Herr Schramm: “Protest voter.”

  Frau Mahlke: “And what kind of political attitude should the lady have?”

  Herr Schramm: “FDP.”

  Frau Mahlke: “The Free Democratic Party? Ah.—Driving license?”

  Herr Schramm: “You can’t manage without one here.”

  Frau Mahlke: “Right.”

  Herr Schramm: “That bit about the FDP was a joke. And about the lady—you keep saying: the lady. She doesn’t have to be a lady, that’s really not necessary.”

  Later, Frau Mahlke and Herr Schramm were sitting outside the butcher’s shop in the sunset, but Frau Mahlke didn’t want anything to eat; she was wearing her sunglasses propped in her hair in spite of the sunlight, and Herr Schramm thought: maybe that’s because her eyes look all right, they’re well worth showing without sunglasses, and he told her so, he put his meatballs on his plate and said, “Frau Mahlke, it’s quite all right that you’re not wearing your sunglasses. Because of your eyes. Because they really look good the way they are.”

  And then Frau Mahlke decided to try the meatballs after all, just a little bit of one, and later Herr Schramm signed the agreement, and Frau Mahlke shook hands with him and drove back to Berlin with the sunset in her rearview mirror.

  Herr Schramm got into the rowing boat and went out on the lake, alone this time. An edgy character, Herr Schramm. Face like the sole of a boot. Firm and leathery and scarred. Bright white hair, the kind of white ex-soldiers get from stress, thin and sparse. He was smoking. He had smoked a lot that day—it’s two months ago now. We’re not surprised that the representative from the dating agency didn’t ask any questions about smoking. Herr Schramm smoked, and made up his mind to stop, let himself drift until the light was only an idea of the gleam in Frau Mahlke’s eyes as she ate the meatball.

  KRONE, BUTCHER’S SHOP AND CAFÉ—LUNCH

  Monday: roast meat and gravy (€4.40)

  Tuesday: loin of pork with sauerkraut (€4.40)

  Wednesday: meatballs (€3.90)

  Thursday: sausages wrapped in bacon (€4.40)

  Friday: roast meat and gravy (€4.40)

  Saturday (Feast Special): grill behind the shop

  IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1589, AT THE TIME OF the Anna Feast, it so happened that the Inn-Keeper here, Ulrich Ramelow, lost his Wife, and got Another in her Stead, a Woman that he did not desire to keep. Folk said that Mine Host had not entirely understood the Warning given him, not to serve his Guests bad Beer, for he had brew’d another Draft at the Anna Feast such as caus’d those who partook of it Grave Incommodity, and it was of a Vile Flavor into the Bargain.

  So now the Inn-Keeper had that strange Female in his House, and could not find his own Wife any Where. The Woman told him roundly that he must endure her to keep Company with him, nor think of making any Complaint to the Mayor, for if he did so he would put her Person and his Own, and above all the Person of his dear Wife, in even greater Danger than was the Pre
sent Case. His Horses, she also informed him, were Well and throve exceedingly.

  Our Inn-Keeper knew not What to do, but the Reason for his Plight was, that until he brewed Decent Beer he should not have a Decent Woman. For the Newcomer was a Sloven who thought Nothing of God and His Word, or of the Holy Sacrament, and she was much given to Cursing and Blaspheming, and moreover had a Vile Stench about her.

  The Inn-Keeper resign’d himself to his Lot, so that his Wife and his Horses should come to No Harm, and he also swore to brew bad Beer no more. Before he next brewed Beer, none the less, the Sloven had done great Harm to his Name and his Inn. She plagu’d Ramelow mightily with her Desires and her Commands, and all but impoverish’d him. Furthermore she caus’d all Manner of Riffraff, Foreigners and Scoundrels to frequent the Inn, for hardly an Honest Man would show his Face there. There was much Wrangling and Strife among the Guests, who oft came to Fisticuffs for the Favors of that Woman, who made very free with her Charms.

  But on the Night when the Inn-Keeper broached his new, good Brew, the Woman was gone, leaving a Besom Broom in the Bed where she had lain. Soon Ramelow his true Wife came home, and right glad she was of it. She said, that two Men had taken her away by Force to a Cavern in the Kiecker Forest, and oblig’d her to stay there with them. The Aforesaid Men were wicked Scoundrels, Thieves and Sorry Deceivers, yet they did not molest her. They had given her good Nourishment, and she had both grave and amusing Talk with them. Many a time the Couple were Away, leaving her with a Fox to bear her company. This Fox was a very tame Beast, and they lov’d it greatly. When they return’d they brought all Manner of Fine Wares, good Cloth, fine Gowns of Damask, Atlas and even Silk with them, together with Jewelery and such Stuff.

  She once tried to run Away, but the Fox had followed like a Dog, and being afeared that the Animal might betray her, she gave up the Attempt.

  The Wife of the Inn-Keeper could describe those Men and tell their Names. One was tall of Stature, t’other short and round as a Carp. The first was called Kuno, his Companion’s Name was Hinnerk. They were Native to Fürstenfelde, which Disclosure serv’d to account for many a Robbery and grievous Assault. The noble Lord Poppo von Blankenburg led ten Horsemen into the Kiecker Forest to bring the Rogues to Justice. The Cavern was found, but there was Nought therein.

  One Day the Congregation did see the Inn-Keeper’s Wife in the House of God, adorn’d with a very fine Girdle, stitch’d as it seem’d with Pearls. There was some Gossip concerning that Girdle, which she never again wore thereafter.

  ANNA IS BREATHING MORE EASILY. THE PRESSURE in her chest hasn’t been so bad since she got into the van. The driver is keeping to 50 k.p.h., no faster. A small, stylized fox’s brush hangs from the rearview mirror, along with a pennant with a lightning flash on it, like the one on the driver’s football shirt. Something like German rap is coming from the loudspeakers. “We Are Legends.”

  Anna points to the pennant. “What’s that for?”

  “All for the best. We just like lightning,” says the smaller youth.

  “It’s our team’s crest, not really frightening,” adds Q, shaking his head.

  There they go again. Anna tries to find some indication that the whole thing is a game, maybe a bet: who will fail to find a rhyme first?

  Q hoots his horn. Right in the middle of the carriageway, no lights on, a car is racing toward them. In films you often see a duel like that. Usually one vehicle ends up in the ditch or against a wall. Q simply brakes and steers to the side of the road. The other car slides off the road, scraping past a birch tree, and drives on into the meadow.

  Anna says, “He must be really tight.”

  “Soon be out like a light,” Q agrees.

  The car is a white Golf, and it makes straight for a tree. Anna gets out. The Golf slithers over an uneven spot on the ground, but hardly seems to slacken speed. Anna runs.

  When she looks back, once, she sees no van on the road.

  The car stops not five meters from the tree. Anna must go more slowly; the ground is uneven and wet, her breathing isn’t steady yet. She is maybe fifty meters away. Someone is sitting motionless inside the car with his head on the steering wheel.

  II

  IT’S IN OUR NATURE TO TAKE A HISTORICAL INTEREST. And anyone who takes a historical interest in us can go to the Homeland House. Exhibitions take place there, Leitz file folders full of potential research materials wait for researchers on a chest of drawers adorned with decorative film bearing a pattern of grapes, and there’s a copying machine that also works as a fax. A senior citizen from California has said he is coming for the Feast, and he wants to explore his family tree a bit. On the phone he told Frau Schwermuth that he’s heard this place is at its best in late summer. Visitors can use the telephone, the coffee machine and the visitors’ toilet, and can also admire Frau Kranz’s charcoal drawing Mayor Heinz Durden after Shooting Duck, which shows a duck flying through the air. Frau Schwermuth asked the senior citizen what place isn’t at its best in late summer.

  Opening Times: strictly observed.

  The Leitz file folders contain documents on:

  People and personalities

  History I (1740–1939) and History II (1945–1989)

  Present events I (1990–onward, in progress)

  Trade, arts and crafts over the ages

  Festivals, customs, clubs

  Faith, the church (bells), war

  Tales and legends (I, II, III)

  We don’t take any historical interest in the contents of the Leitz file folders.

  Above the folders hangs a cork pinboard. Pinned to it are index cards with accounts of milestones in local history. The first is about a giant:

  It was not men who divided the waters at Fürstenfelde in such a way that we have two lakes; a giant did it. Long, long ago he broke the peak off a mountain in the Dinaric Alps in Dalmatia, and threw it so that it landed here and divided the waters for ever. History does not relate whether the giant threw the mountain peak on purpose.

  They tell this story in the Dinaric Alps too. A mountain peak, as they tell it there, was blocking a giant’s view of the Adriatic Sea, so he got rid of it. That version doesn’t say that the rock traveled all the way to the Uckermark. Anyway, there are huge fingerprints to be seen on it, and a worn inscription in Old Church Slavonic which could mean, “The love of God is our salvation,” or alternatively it may say, “Bogoljub (= Theophilus) is a stalk of asparagus.”

  We don’t take any historical interest in giants.

  We don’t take any interest in milestones of local history.

  Anyone who takes a historical interest in us had better talk to Frau Schwermuth. Frau Schwermuth knows things. She knows where to find the dramatic story of our Singing Club in the Leitz file folders, with the tale of its rise and fall at the beginning of the war, and she knows where to find the equally dramatic story of our Marksmen’s Association and its rise and fall after the end of the war.

  Farewell, brother marksmen, think of your old comrades sometimes, and we send you greetings: shoot well, and good luck!

  Those are the words of Paul Wiese. Wiese was our chronicler until the 1950s. Frau Schwermuth has been his successor since the fall of the Berlin Wall. In between those years, the office of chronicler was neglected. Historically and in relation to Fürstenfelde, Frau Schwermuth knows everything, or she knows how to find it out.

  We don’t take any historical interest in the Marksmen’s Association.

  We don’t take any historical interest in knowledge.

  The Homeland House sells secondhand books out of banana crates. We take no historical interest in them, but they’re El Dorado for dust mites. They cost between fifty cents and four euros. The journal Our Fürstenfelde, published by the Fürstenfelde Historical Society, costs five euros to local people and eight to tourists on cycling trips. The poster Fürstenfelde, Seen from a Helicopter (1996) cost fourteen D-Marks when it was published. The latest CD made by our Firefighters’ Choral Society, So
und and Smoke, We Didn’t Start the Fire, costs 7.89 euros. They were rehearsing Beethoven’s “Hymn to the Night” in the evening, for the Feast. It sounded good, very good. And assorted maps of the area can be bought at the Homeland House: walking and cycling maps, maps of the lakes, and four different picture postcards.

  At the moment there’s an exhibition about tiled stoves in the Homeland House. Tiled stoves used to be our most important and beautiful exports. Another exhibition is also on, showing everyday items from the time of the German Democratic Republic: hair dryers, sewing machines, can-openers, what a People’s Police officer looked like, canned food, etc.

  We don’t take any historical interest in tiles or everyday life in the GDR.

  But we do take an interest in the massive wooden door in the cellar. There’s something about doors and cellars. Still intact, despite their age and the damp. We’re interested to know why so much fuss is made about that door. About the lock on that door. We take an interest in the room behind it. About six by six meters, asymmetrical walls of unhewn rock, more of a cave than a room. And during which war did old Lutz hide people in there?

  We don’t take any interest in historical accuracy.

  And we don’t know much about the room in the cellar. It’s some kind of local history archive. But our History Society keeps a low profile about what exactly is in that archive. Now that is interesting. It’s as if you were collecting something but not telling anyone what. So either you’re ashamed of it, because you’re a fifty-year-old engineer nicking and hoarding, let’s say, used tubes of lip gloss, or it’s forbidden to collect what you’re collecting, for instance because it’s threatened with extinction, like some species of monkeys and so on.

  Members of the History Society, that’s to say the Committee of Friends of the Homeland House, are: Frau Kranz, Frau Schwermuth, Imboden, Zieschke the baker, the bell-ringer and, until recently, the ferryman. We’d know even less about the archive if Frau Schwermuth didn’t sometimes talk proudly about it, and if something wasn’t exhibited upstairs from time to time.